


Tea and Transcriptions

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, John Whump, John discovers something, John discovers somethings about Sherlock, John has a Day Off, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Whump, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 06:01:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4993018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The smell of tea brewing soaked through the air languidly like a genteel waltz. John inhaled, the smell sweeping away his frustration at Sherlock’s password, felt his chest and mind expand lightly. He smiled a true smile. His day off was no longer in jeopardy."</p><p>John has a day off, snoops, and discovers some things about Sherlock. Post Reichenbach, post Mary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tea and Transcriptions

John was enjoying a rare afternoon of quiet solitude. There wasn't a case on, and Sherlock was at Bart's setting corpses on fire or something, so he was letting himself take the day off.

The curtains were drawn open and warm summer air was sighing through the flat's big windows. He stretched out in his chair, his posture the glaring opposite of what he would recommend to a patient. Opening his laptop, he typed in his newest password, _ThereIsNoKingOfEngland_ , and then paused. This was his day off, he reasoned, perfect twin tendrils of laziness and glee unfurling through his body. Why not use Sherlock's laptop?

It took five minutes of guessing before he realized the problem. He didn't know Sherlock's password, and knowing him, it would probably be a random string of letters and numbers with odd capitals interspersed in it. He sat, flummoxed, grasping his hair. It was a new habit formed after Afghanistan. Ella had said new habits were important to adjusting to civilian life, so after seeing Sherlock tug at his hair during a particularly difficult case involving a vinegar-logged armchair, he had decided that he, too, would tug his hair when he came across a hard problem.

He didn't want to keep guessing; Sherlock's laptop would probably blow up if he keyed in the wrong password too many times. Instead, he pulled his hair for another leisurely five minutes. Then he thought, _sod this_ , took a deep breath, and went into the kitchen where he smiled a deliberately kind smile at his teakettle. He was going to make tea the proper way, the way his mum had always made it: oolong with a dash of milk. Simple and neat, the way his mum folded his jumpers, the way he still folded his jumpers now.

He took his time to put the kettle on, measuring out exactly two cups of water. When it was boiling, he poured it into Mrs. Hudson's teapot, a delicate flowery number that she had forgotten to collect and that John kept purposely forgetting to return. He tucked a teabag into the pot, placed a tea cosy on it, and waited three minutes in blissful silence, standing at attention. The smell of tea brewing soaked through the air languidly like a genteel waltz. John inhaled, the smell sweeping away his frustration at Sherlock's password, felt his chest and mind expand lightly. He smiled a true smile. His day off was no longer in jeopardy.

A splash of semi-skimmed milk into his favorite tea mug (the red one from his student years at Bart's), then a healthy dose of tea, and he was ready to crack the code (or password) again. He took a slow sip and contemplated. Sherlock always guessed his passwords in one or two tries. They were always messages to him, like _PissOffSherlock_ or _TheEarthOrbitsTheSunSherlock_ that Sherlock would have to comb through his memories for. He thought it might make Sherlock a bit more human, having to remember daily conversations with him. It also reminded them both that Sherlock didn't actually know everything ( _just the important things_ , Sherlock would say).

John wrapped his hand around the warm mug. Then he decided to do something Sherlock did when he was desperate on a case. Because this was a case, wasn't it? _Let it be known,_ he thought, _John Watson never backs down from a challenge!_ He took his laptop and his tea and sat in Sherlock's chair, placing one ankle on the opposite knee. Sherlock sat like that all the time. What would he do if he were Sherlock? How would Sherlock create a new password?

He would probably be amused and slightly encouraging but would ultimately want to keep John out. What did Sherlock value? Deduction and analysis, his violin and skull, cigarettes and… cocaine… but those were all obvious. What else did Sherlock like?

Nice clothes, chemistry, his hair and general appearance (John snorted to himself; Sherlock was secretly the vainest man in England)… but those were all easy to guess. Maybe the question was what Sherlock _didn't_ like. That was harder.

Well, he didn't like stupidity. And he didn't like Mycroft.

John stretched out and looked at the smiley face. What would Sherlock think about? His boredom? What would relieve his boredom?

He smiled to himself and decided to risk the laptop blowing up. Because there was a chance Sherlock would be able to see his guesses and his next one was funny. So he flexed his hands once above the keyboard and then typed _SexDoesNotAlarmMe_.

No—no, that wasn't right. Because if that was it, then Sherlock would be speaking to Mycroft. He typed _SexDoesNotAlarmMeMycroft_ and pressed enter.

And then he jumped back, his back hitting the back of the chair and sliding down the leather—because the computer was logging in and not blowing up. He laughed to himself and thought, _This is a really good day off._

Sherlock's desktop picture was of himself and Mycroft as children, which was surprising and…sweet. In the picture Mycroft was about twelve, and he could see why Sherlock always teased his brother about his weight when he wanted to express something brotherly—Mycroft had been _hefty_. Sherlock on the other hand was about five, and it seemed he'd never been fat. Baby Sherlock's limbs were spindly and long and he wore an exaggerated scowl that matched Mycroft's. They were both wearing light linen suits on a beach. Sherlock carried a small telescope tucked under his arm and a handful of shells. John remembered Mycroft telling him that rainy day in Speedy's about how Sherlock had wanted to be a pirate. He smiled, and then frowned, wondering when the Holmes's scowls had become real.

He nestled further into Sherlock's chair. It smelled like him, he noticed. A bit like gun powder and coffee. He took another sip of his tea. Sherlock had a very simple system of organization. There were folders labeled "Cases files," "Analysis of Tobacco Ash," "Soil of London," "Apiology," "Dust," "Serviettes," and more mysteriously, "Tedium," "Reboot," and "Transcriptions."

He clicked on "Transcriptions". The folder held several other folders titled "1998-2000," "2000-2003," "2003-2010," "2010-2012," and "2014-". He hovered his mouse over "1998-2000". If this was what he thought it was… but it couldn't be because who would expect Sherlock Holmes to keep a diary? Thinking about it, Sherlock talked about everyone and everything except himself, so maybe it made sense that Sherlock had a place where he hashed things out. But there was only one way to find out. He clicked on it.

There were only a few documents in it—and he supposed Sherlock would only chronicle the interesting bits of his own life. He knew for a fact he kept everything else (people, places, things) in his Index, so perhaps "Transcriptions" was a few select pieces from Sherlock's life.

The first document was untitled and very short. It read:

 _This is not a diary._ (John snorted.) _Everything of import is in my Index. Rather, this is a catalogue of all the memories I will delete. Naturally, as I am king of my mind palace, I require checks and balances. Hopefully this will solve the problem of the unfinished man, as Mycroft puts it. He should know. He is the one who taught me to delete and store memories as I wish._

_Sherlock Holmes_

_September 3, 1998_

John sat back. So it was a diary of sorts, no matter what Sherlock said. Then he thought, no wonder Sherlock so often seemed like he lacked something, if he deleted things left and right. But if Sherlock was an "unfinished man," what sort of memories did he delete? Painful ones? Deeply personal ones?

The desire to honor his friend's privacy was warring with his curiosity about Sherlock. But then he thought of when Sherlock had jumped off a roof and pretended to be dead for three years, and he thought of how he had felt like something was taken away from him, like he had never really gotten to know Sherlock, like there was so much _more_ to be known and seen and loved, and how he would never know and see and love those bits of Sherlock. And he thought any minute Sherlock could disappear again—even as abrasive and rude and brilliant as he was he could disintegrate and never be seen again because that was the way things worked—and he took a deep breath, the same breath that had gotten him through all the times he had had to lace his boots up and shoot young men and patch other young men up, and that had gotten him through those lonely nights after Afghanistan when he woke up alone after a nightmare—and then with this breath gathered in his body, John resolutely clicked on the next document.

It was titled "Prologue" and it read:

_Here are the moments I've undeleted so I can put them here before I delete them again:_

_When I told everyone at the Christmas party that I had deduced that Father was having an affair and his face went icier than I had ever seen it. When he was gone the next day and never came back._

_When Mummy cried and drank a lot and Mycroft had to take me to the park._

_When Redbeard died._

_When Mycroft went away to Eton and never really talked to Mummy or me again._

_When I was knocked over and hit again and again and again._

_Freak._

_When Mummy died and I went to live with Mycroft in London._

_When I came out to Mycroft._

The list ended there. John shut his eyes and already his heart was aching. He promised himself he would read more later and went to watch some crap telly to remind himself that things were still the same and that the mundane still existed. After a long while, since he had time today and since Sherlock had told him not to wait up, John stretched his limbs and went to the kitchen to fix himself lunch.

He couldn't stop thinking about the list, though. Some of it was very vague. For example, he had no idea who Redbeard was, and "When I was knocked over and hit again and again and again" could refer to a number of people and situations. But John thought he understood "Freak".

He shivered and realized he'd been standing in front of the open fridge for a while now. He realized he was very cold and not very hungry and just wanted to burrow in his bed. Carefully, he shut off Sherlock's laptop, which had become slightly warm by now, and put it exactly where he remembered he had taken it from. There was only a bit of tea left in his mug so he filled the rest of it with some very strong whisky Sherlock had bought him once very long ago and brought the mug to bed.

He stood staring at the bed. He felt the deep well of sadness inside him making itself known all over again. Back when Sherlock had just died, Ella had told him an important thing was to keep regular meal hours. Inexplicably, he felt like Sherlock had died all over again, but he didn't want to eat, not even the packaged dinners Ella said was a good compromise when he wasn't up to cooking or picking up the phone for takeaway. 

He downed the whisky in one gulp. He crawled under the covers and let gravity push his dead weight into the mattress. The pillow caressed his cheek. He was lying in an odd position but he didn't want to move. His limbs were heavy. He sank into the dark.

If he dreamed, he didn't remember it. He woke to a cold, damp spot on his pillow. Outside his door, Sherlock was playing something very slow and soft and beautiful on his violin.


End file.
